


supper and somnolence

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Canon-Appropriate Mattresses, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: “I can’t believe it,” Courfeyrac says, clutching the letter to his heart gleefully. “You’re writing each other sappy letters. You’re having secret rendezvous. You’recourtingeach other.”“I am not courting Enjolras,” Combeferre hisses, snatching the letter away.“You’re right, you’re right, you would never. I don’t know what came over me” He puts his hands up in submission. “He’s courtingyouthough.”
Relationships: Combeferre/Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	supper and somnolence

**Author's Note:**

> For Logic and Philosophy Week 2020!

“I can’t believe it,” Courfeyrac says, clutching the letter to his heart gleefully. “You’re writing each other sappy letters. You’re having secret rendezvous. You’re _courting_ each other.”

“I am not courting Enjolras,” Combeferre hisses, snatching the letter away.

“You’re right, you’re right, you would never. I don’t know what came over me” He puts his hands up in submission. “He’s courting _you_ though.”

“You are misinterpreting the situation completely. He simply asked me to dinner and since it would be inconvenient for me to return to my own rooms, he offered to share his own.” Combeferre trails off. “It isn’t courtship,” he insists, but Courfeyrac is looking smugger by the second and Combeferre’s voice is faltering.

“My two best friends are such idiots,” Courfeyrac announces to the room at large, and he orders more wine.

-

Monday brings Combeferre to Enjolras’ rooms, fidgeting outside the door and Courfeyrac’s words still turning in his head, even if they are completely irrational.

Enjolras isn’t courting him. That would be ridiculous. Enjolras has never courted anybody in his life. Combeferre has seen him flee when confronted with the question of a marriage. He’s seen him give, in the most sincere tone, his best wishes for Musichetta’s recovery from the malady that required Joly to make so many house calls. He has no taste for romance, and Combeferre has known this since he met the man. There is absolutely no reason why he should feel disappointed. None at all.  
And yet.

Enjolras opens the door, which is quite effective at silencing Combeferre’s thoughts. He looks like he dressed in a hurry, with his hair snarled in his waistcoat buttons and his cravat engulfing the lower half of his face. Combeferre reaches out to rescue him.  
“Combeferre,” he says, beaming, once Combeferre has wrestled the cravat off him. “Come in, please.”

It's strange, really, that Enjolras has ordered a proper meal for once, and that it is laid out on the table ready to eat. Combeferre is far too used to their midnight scrounges for anything edible, culminating in polite little duels where they both pretend that their stomachs aren’t growling and encouraging the other to take more. The plates and cutlery set out on the good tablecloth seem a little much.  
“It was recently brought to my attention that I was being a terrible host,” Enjolras says, waving an awkward hand at the spread. “I…did not want to be a terrible host, least of all to you.”

“Ah,” Combeferre says, carefully ignoring the warmth that blooms in his chest. “Well, for what it is worth, I didn’t think you were a terrible host.”

Enjolras beams again, which is a lovely sight. “Courfeyrac said something about it, yesterday, and I was worried it bothered you so—”

“—but it doesn’t,” Combeferre says hastily, and he ends up patting Enjolras on the shoulder to reassure him. It turns into a hug midway, because that is what good friends who are not courting each other do.

It’s a good hug, Combeferre is not going to lie. It might very well be the perfect hug—not bone-crushing as Courfeyrac’s hugs are, nor as overheated as Joly’s tend to be. It’s just a firm, warm hug, with Enjolras’ chin hooked over Combeferre’s shoulder like it’s made to fit there, and no one worrying about possible discomfort, cracked ribs, or pneumonia.

Enjolras shifts to move away, and Combeferre finds himself disapproving. There is no pressing need to move away, nor any immediate matter that needs to be resolved. There is no reason for Enjolras to release him from the hug, so Enjolras should not. It is simple reason.

-

The food is excellent, or so Combeferre assumes. He’s never been overly particular as to what he eats, only that it fills his stomach and prevents him from fainting. Enjolras keeps looking at him over his plate, clutching his water glass until his knuckles are white. He hasn’t been himself since he released Combeferre and hastily poured them both a drink.

“Are you all right?” Combeferre finally says.

Enjolras looks guiltily down at the tablecloth, feigning interest in a stain. “I was wondering if you were forced into this meeting,” he says, raising his eyes to meet Combeferre’s. “I realize there have been many of late, and you have interests outside of the Cause. You have better things to do, I’m sure, than spend your entire evening at—”

“—at the house of my best friend since childhood, whom I’ve sworn to follow into battle and bloodshed and into the future, however it may come to pass?”

Enjolras laughs. “Well, when you put it like that…” He no longer looks like he is considering plunging his fork into the salmon in order to relieve his feelings, so Combeferre considers the interaction a success.

-

The wine is excellent, or at the very least, Enjolras seems assured of that idea. He consumed the entire bottle, after all, and is swaying gently as a result, his curls having come loose and tumbling over his shoulders. He swats at them irritatedly and vehemently, looking distressed when they swing back into his face.

“Combeferre,” he says faintly. “Help me.”

Combeferre laughs and reaches for Enjolras’ hair. It’s incredibly soft, and Combeferre has to resist combing his fingers through it before he starts braiding it. Enjolras makes a contented noise and doesn’t attempt to make Combeferre’s life harder, which is appreciated.

“All done.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says. They both sit on the couch and select books off Enjolras’ cluttered side table, and they read. The treatise Combeferre ends up with is particularly error-ridden, and he scribbles furiously in an attempt to correct it.

“Combeferre?” Enjolras says after several long minutes, his voice soft. He hasn’t spoken since Combeferre finished braiding his hair.

“Yes?”

“I can trust you with anything, right?”

“Of course.”

“And you wouldn’t mock me for it?”

“I would never.”

Enjolras shifts closer, sitting up and facing Combeferre fully. “I have a…question. A question I have long wished to ask you, but I have never had the courage to.”

Combeferre nods, trying to keep his face neutral, his heart hammering in his chest. “Please do.”

Enjolras takes Combeferre’s face into his hands and breathes out shakily. “How do your glasses work?”

-

Enjolras insists on going to bed early, which is the most unreasonable decision he has made in all his years of life. Combeferre, rational being that he is, knows that midnights and early mornings are meant for reading books, conducting experiments, and catching up on the latest medical innovations.

Even more unreasonable is Enjolras’ decision that Combeferre should share a bed with him. As far as Combeferre knows, Enjolras has a fully furnished guest room in the unlikely scenario that his family comes visiting. There is no reason for Combeferre to share his bed.

And yet.

“You can sleep in the other room if you don’t wish to,” Enjolras says from the bed. His hair is damp, and he’s dressed in a nightshirt with ridiculously large sleeves.

“I wish to,” Combeferre says hastily, and he lies down.

The bed is comfort made reality. It is the absolute height of luxury. The mattress is soft and warm and heavenly beneath him and his head sinks into the fluff of the pillows. Combeferre knows medical students who would _kill_ for a bed like this one, or at the very least sob and beg for it on their knees. Combeferre may be close to crying himself.

“Oh god,” he manages.

Enjolras’ head jerks up. “Is there something wrong?”

“This is the most comfortable mattress ever.”

Enjolras giggles. “It’s feathers.”

Combeferre forces himself to stay still, the better to sink into the depths of the bed. “You don’t seem like an indulgent lazy wastrel whose health is ruined irretrievably.”

“Maybe you haven’t seen that side of me yet,” Enjolras deadpans before he puts his arms around Combeferre.

“Have you been courting me?” Combeferre blurts, because Enjolras is treating the fact that they are sealed together rather blasély for a man who has shunned every sort of romantic attachment.

“I am in the process of it,” Enjolras says. “I would not exactly say it is a past activity.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, further securing his grip on Combeferre. “I try.”


End file.
